


How to Love the Hopeless and Apolaustic

by orphan_account



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Family, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-20
Updated: 2014-05-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 19:45:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1660280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a balance that must be kept consistent throughout life, and Ludwig Beilschmidt understands this better than most after witnessing firsthand, failure. In attempts to help his brother and his family name, Ludwig’s has his life mapped out to the dot. However, after crossing paths with a strange artist who barely scrapes by, the poor man finds himself unwillingly sidetracking from his plans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How to Love the Hopeless and Apolaustic

**Author's Note:**

> **I do not own Hetalia or its characters, and I am not making money off this piece.**

  **“Letters from Bed (Fourth Letter)- Fall of 1618” - ** _Edelweiss_ translated by Nemo Abate****

_To My Soldier,_

_Ah, I am laughing too hard. Can you tell that I am? I'm gripping the paper tightly as I giggle, and when you get it, I hope that you can see the crinkles as evidence for my sudden fit!_   
  
_I guess I am laughing because I am trying to think what kind of person Life would be. If Life were a muse, she would be a very meticulous yet mischievous one, don't you agree? She would be unfair, yet humorous in doing her bidding, killing off the people who put their trust into her. Why would she be unfair?_   
  
_When I finally hoped to hear from my brother again, I immediately receive the news that he has died, that he died with seething hatred for Papa, for Mama, and finally for me. When I start to finally understand what a good household feels like, I am told that we have to leave! And finally, a_ _s I begin to love you, I have to accept the fact that you are most likely dead._   
  
_Ah, I'm laughing too hard. Why is the act of living so tricky? It's all so incredibly beautiful and careful in building up the lives of people who just want to be happy, but in the end, living singles out and tears down the one and only shaky pillar supporting the person's stability. I wonder how much humor Life finds in watching a person's life crumble and fall between her fingers. It's so sad._

_So sad that I have to laugh!_   
  
_Ah, I can't breathe! My head is spinning too much. I think I am getting sleepy again._

-  
  
 _The Missus says that I am working myself too hard with writing all day, and that I should rest or else it will be the death of me. (I was wondering whether or not she was using it in the metaphorical or literal sense.) However, after sleeping for another two days, I have decided that I want to write my last words to you before it gets tiring to even lift up my arms. Would that be alright?_

_First, I regret that I never had the chance say goodbye to anybody. (In people's last words, do they not write down what they regret?)_   
  
_I regret that I never got to say goodbye and apologize to Mama despite my knowing that I caused her as well as my brother and Papa so much pain. I should have asked for her forgiveness when I prayed in the church. I regret that I never got to say goodbye to Papa as I watched him disappear from the carriage on its way to the Master's estate. I should have told him that I loved him even if he did send me away._   
  
_I regret that I never got to say goodbye to my brother before he jumped from the window with a look of hatred and died on foreign lands. I should have pulled him back, embraced him, and told him that it was him that Mama, Papa, and everyone loved most, not me._   
  
_I regret that I can never say goodbye to you. I should have pulled you back when you kissed me and left, should have wrapped my arms around you and thrown a fit._   
  
_I wonder if it was my destiny to suffer as much as I am right now._   
  
_I really do think that this is all fate's fault. It's fate's fault that I never got to say goodbye to any of you. Yes, that's right. Even though my vocation is to suffer, to feel guilty, I will not accept it!_   
  
_I refuse to say goodbye to you._   
  
_You see, it is not a matter of saying goodbye to you face to face! I outright deny the mere thought of our bodies finding this so called "peace" in death whether our souls go to Heaven or Hell because this is insane._   
  
_This is insane!_   
  
_Papa always preached at the Mass that life was supposed to be good, and that life was a gift from God, that it ended with a feeling of fulfillment! This existence, this entire life has been nothing but loss and having that void within myself grow bigger and bigger!_   
  
_I think that living should have gone differently._   
  
_I think that you should have never gone to war, that your brother should have come back instead! I think that my own brother and I should have been reunited, and that he should be here now with me! Yes, he should have been happy with me because Mama should never have died.  
_   
_I shouldn't be dying from sickness now. I should be happy! I should be walking on my own two legs just fine, and I should be cradled to Mama's breast, sleeping as my brother naps beside us!_   
  
_The Missus shouldn't have been cursed with a fruitless womb. The Master and she should have their own happy household with a child to take care of instead of them being alone, instead of weeping over others' children and their own unhappiness._   
  
_You should be with you brother, and I should be with you, holding your hand, and teaching you how to paint._   
  
_No. No goodbyes, not yet at least._   
  
_I will not succumb to death._   
  
_I will wait for you, wait until I can properly see you again, wait until I can properly see my brother and Papa again._

_I am sure that God will grant an exception to something like this, right? Life always works out in the end, right? So now, instead of "goodbye" we can say "I will be waiting."_

_I will not die._

_I will not die!_ _  
_

* * *

 With a hollow thump, he closed the book tightly. Even after reading the collection of letters for a second time, the man found that his mind still spinning from the last words of the ill child.

Yes,  _child_. The translator certainly did take a lot of measures in making the child's words so intimidatingly intricate.

"And those words were too sad and scary for a child to write in a letter," he thought. However, even if the words were terrifying and unrealistic for a child to say, there was still something behind the basics of the dying child's will which he thought was admirable. Maybe it was how strongly and desperately the child grasped at the thought of happiness in her final hour. A child who had lived in 1618 certainly had a way of going about life that put his own character to shame.  
  
The man's smile grew wider. Who knew that a young girl caught in between a war so long ago could share the same problems as he? Was it coincidence? He giggled lightly to himself.  
  
Deciding that his head had enough of such obscure thoughts for the day, the man emptied his mind as he carefully laid the cover of the book face down onto the cafe table. With a nudge from his fingertips, the book slid onto the center the table next to a sketch he had been slaving over the previous weeks. Honey eyes glanced over it.  
  
The sketch was nearly finished. However, instead of putting the last touches on it, he had decided to read. Today just felt like a special day.  
  
"The evenings are getting colder now," the man noticed. He guessed that it was good that he went out for coffee. The chill of autumn in New York was an interesting contrast from the summer in his homeland, and he began to wonder how much longer the people of northeast Manhattan could continue wearing their "lighter outfits." With a tilt of his head, the man looked down at his own apparel.  
  
One could say that he went overboard in comparison with some of the more drably garbed New Yorkers, but he always argued to himself that he just couldn't help it. The naturally fashionable people of his first home had already rubbed off on him.  
  
He reached a chilled hand for the chalky cup holding his untouched coffee, and as he drew the lip of the cup to his mouth, his laughably feminine, button nose could pick up the sharp and fulfilling scent of coffee that wafted to the back of his skull in a wakeful, pleasing manner.  
  
However, when the coffee reached his lips, he stiffened.  
  
The coffee was stale and cold. It would seem as if he had been reading for far too long. Actually, the ornate clock on the wall indicated that it was now six o'clock in the evening. It had been two hours since his arrival.  
  
Pulling his lips away from the cup, the man began to feel his full lips draw into a grin.  
  
"You're getting worked up over nothing!" he scolded himself. "Only a child would throw a fit over a hot drink gone cold."  
  
Even though he thought this, he still couldn't help but think that all he wanted to do today was to get away from the apartment for something warm. Was a hot or at least warm coffee too much to ask for?  
  
He guessed it was okay. Life was full of disappointments. The girl in the letters was right. Life wasn't too fair, was it? Her life through her letters as well as his own life through his eyes was living proof of the injustice of it all.  
  
Taking in another sigh, the man gave an exaggerated pout and rested his head heavily in his free hand. The other continued to hold the coffee. Disappointment. Happiness. "I guess sadness really isn't the opposite of glee," he thought as he began swirling the coffee around within its paper container.  
  
Call it a burst of impulse or a surge of anger, but in one, casual action, the man, whose legal name was Feliciano Vargas, drew his lips into a tight smile once more as he tossed the unlidded and unforgiven cup of coffee to the side. As the cup fell, Feliciano nearly sighed with pleasure as he took in the musical slosh of liquid disappointment splattering against the stone tile. He would have continued in this state if it weren't for the scrambling of feet coming over to assist him.


End file.
